Wicked Fortune (Wicked Nights #5)

Chapter 1

ONE

The dream is always the same.

My parents have gone out, and I’m trapped in my own living room, held tight in the prison of the monster’s arms, my back pressed against his chest.

I whimper, but I don’t yell. I know the rules. The monster reminds me of them every time he comes. I’m eight and I know how to follow rules. I’m a good girl. I do what I’m told.

But I don’t want to do this at all.

I whimper again, and the arm around me tightens. My captor whispers words in his monster language, but I squeeze my eyes closed and try not to hear or feel or even exist.

It doesn’t work.

I don’t want to be here. Downstairs. This close to the monster.

I don’t want to be in the house at all.

Mommy says there aren’t really monsters. That there’s nothing bad hiding in my room or lurking under my bed.

She’s right about my room. But not about the monsters.

I open my eyes, and hot tears snake down my cheeks. “I want to go,” I whisper.

Except I don’t. I say it only in my head, because I’m not supposed to talk. He told me the rules. And when a monster gives you rules, you have to follow them.

I start to squeeze my eyes shut, and that’s when I see him.

My eyes go wide as I gape at the man. He’s dressed all in black, his body flattened into the shadows on the staircase. I don’t know him. I don’t even know the monster holding me. Not really. I only know Celia, my babysitter, who invited the monster into the house. Who brought him last time, too, and the time before that. She says it’s only a game, but I don’t like how he touches me. I don’t want to play that game again.

But this time, the Stair Man is here, and he’s looking toward me, and I don’t know what to do. I want to call out. Maybe the Stair Man will help me. But before I can yell, he puts a finger to his lips, and little tickles of hope dance in my belly.

I don’t let myself believe, though.

It happens fast, as things sometimes do in nightmares and memories. One minute the monster has me in his grip. The next, I’m clinging to the Stair Man as he uses bad words and a voice like a knife to tell Celia and the monster to get out. To go. And to never, ever come back.

The words are like music, and my body wants to burst from the warm wash of joy that spills through me when the icy terror finally slithers away.

Tears clog my throat as the Stair Man carries me up the winding staircase. “He won’t be back. Not ever.” The Stair Man’s voice isn’t sharp now. It’s as soft as Mr. Quack, the yellow stuffed toy I’ve had for as long as I can remember.

I cling to him, and that’s when the tears finally flow. Fear. Relief. A whole wash of emotion that feels too big for my small body.

The Stair Man makes shushing noises as he tucks me into bed with Mr. Quack, then whispers that it will be okay.

I believe him. Then he turns out my light and leaves, but I’m still not scared. He’s there, somewhere in the house. He saved me from the monster. He’ll stay to watch over me until my parents come home.

I roll over and try to sleep, but I can’t. My body aches. My breasts are swollen. I feel a needy pressure between my legs. I’m Aurora and I did sleep after all. I slept for years. I had to. How else could I catch up to the Stair Man?

I’m no longer in my little girl nightie. Now, I’m all grown up in a lacy camisole with matching panties. He’s with me, and I realize the Stair Man isn’t a Stair Man at all. He’s a cat, with feline cunning and grace. With eyes that see right through me, and a tongue that works magic on every inch of my body.

I try to see his face, but I can’t. Not really. No matter how hard I look, he’s always in soft focus. All I can see are deep green eyes and a taunting smile.

“Please,” I whisper. Those gorgeous eyes narrow, and I fear he’s going to ease away from me. That he’ll disappear from my bed, from the house, from this city. From me.

But then a flash of heat fires behind the green. I barely have time to breathe before his mouth finds mine. Before his hands are stroking me, undressing me.

His lips tease over my bare belly, sliding down until his tongue is dancing along the elastic of my panties, then lower and lower until I’m arching up. Until my hands are fisting in the sheets, and I’m trying not to scream as he brings my body to life, sending heat racing through me only to pool back between my legs until I’m shattering beneath him, crying out for him, gasping from the power of the orgasm that has almost broken me.

I reach for him, trying to pull him down. I’m weak with longing. Ridiculous with need. I feel as though I’ll die if he doesn’t ride me hard. If he doesn’t take me over again and again and again.

But he doesn’t.

He never does.

Instead, he brushes a kiss over my lips, then disappears, leaving me alone on my bed. My fingers grasp the tousled sheets. My heart pounds in my chest. And I clench my thighs together in a desperate attempt to cling to the lingering wisps of passion that twine through me.

But it’s no use, and I whimper as my eyes flutter open, pulling me out of the world of dreams. I fight back a soft moan, hating that I feel the loss of him so much. This man I haven’t seen for twenty years. Who I barely saw that night, hidden as he was in the shadows.

He’s a man who lives only in my memory. And in my fantasies. A man I can’t control. A shadow. A savior. A fiend.

A bastard and a thieving son-of-a-bitch.

And a jerk, to boot.

He may have saved me from the monster, but he betrayed me, too. And now—when he slides into my dreams—I hate how much I crave the fantasy. How much I crave him , a man whose face I’ve never fully seen and whose name I do not know .

Once, I’d called him the Stair Man. But that was before I learned the truth. That he’d broken in to steal from my family. A damn cat burglar.

I should hate him, but I can’t. Despite knowing the truth about him, what started as a little girl’s gratitude for being saved has turned into an erotic escape where I imagine his hands, his lips, his tongue.

His cock.

I still remember the feel of his chest and arms as he carried me up the stairs, then tucked me safely into bed. I recall the musky scent of cologne that tickled my nose.

At the time, it had been only a pleasant, safe aroma. Over the years, though, my innocent childhood thoughts devolved into deliciously erotic fantasies. And now that woody, citrus scent makes my nipples peak and my core tighten and tingle with longing.

Acqua di Parma Colonia. An elegant, timeless scent. And popular enough in Los Angeles that I often feel like Pavlov’s dog, brought to arousal by that familiar fragrance, only to sag with disappointment when the random man who caught my attention lacks even an inkling of the presence and bearing of The Cat.

“Idiot,” I mutter, as I force myself fully awake, then rub my face, as if that will scatter the unwanted memory and the dream it sired.

The dream is always the same.

But this time, it had been different. I frown, trying to grab the tail of the dream before it fades.

Jenny .

The memory of my friend hits me like a slap, and a cold chill rushes through my veins.

Jenny had been there when the dream began, whispering to me while the monster held me. Begging me to help her. But how could I when I was trapped myself? And now that she’s dead, what help could I possibly be?

A wave of caustic sadness rolls through me. It’s too late. I don’t even know what I could have done back then. Maybe I’d missed a sign. A cry for help that she?—

“Dammit, Aria!” Bree’s voice beckons from the other side of my bedroom door, and I jump, now fully jarred from the dream world. “Will you turn off the stupid alarm and get out here? I’m starving!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” She’s right—my phone is squalling. I roll over and slap the screen to turn off the alarm. “Gimme five secs.”

I yank on the leggings and long-sleeved tee I’d left hanging on the back of the closet, then hurry into the living area. As soon as she sees me, she cocks her head, raises her brows, and says, “Another erotic fling with Mr. Cat?”

I grimace. Sometimes having a lifelong bestie can be a real pain in the ass. “It’s The Cat,” I tell her. “And a girl doesn’t dream and tell.”

She just crosses her arms and lifts a brow.

“Fine,” I say. “He was there, it was hot, enough said. Just put away your prurient fantasies for a sec and listen to me, okay?”

Her dark eyes widen at the edge in my voice, but she nods.

“Jenny.” I cross my arms, letting the name hang there as I give her my most meaningful stare.

She exhales with a surprised little oh as she takes a step back, looking down as she tucks a strand of long, dark hair behind one ear. With a Jewish father and a Cherokee mother, she is both exotic and stunning. And the only reason I don’t hate her for it is because she’s my best friend in the world.

Or I thought she was. She should be able to read my mind, and the fact that she’s not jumping on the Jenny train has me sighing with exasperation.

“ Jenny,” I repeat as Bree looks up, brushing a fingertip under each glistening eye. “She was in my dream,” I add softly, undone by Bree’s tears. I’ve always been the emotional one. Even after the hell she went through with the kidnapping and the blackmail, she’s the practical, self-controlled one. Comparatively speaking, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s okay. Tell me. Did you learn something? Do you know why she …?” She trails off with a shudder, then draws a breath as if steeling herself. “Do you know why she did it?”

In lieu of an answer, I cock my head toward the kitchen. She nods, then heads into the galley-style kitchen like she owns the place. Which, actually, she does. I used to be her roommate. Now she’s my landlord, having decided that moving out to live with her new husband after the wedding would be a jolly good idea.

Thankfully, she’s not here to collect the rent.

I watch as she pops bagels into the toaster and starts a pot of coffee. When the bagels pop back up, she grabs two plates, two knives, and the tub of cream cheese. She slides it all onto the newly retiled kitchen bar, courtesy of yours truly’s labor and Bree’s credit card. Then she comes around and hops on the stool next to the one I’ve claimed.

“Shouldn’t you be off banging your husband?” I ask. “It’s only been three months. Don’t tell me the honeymoon’s over.”

“Yes, alas, we’re done with all of that.” She digs into the cream cheese and starts slathering her bagel. I do the same. “Now all I do is walk around in a frumpy housecoat while he repairs appliances and scratches his balls.”

“Living the good life.” We share a grin. “Is it horrible that I’m insanely jealous of how happy you look?”

Bree cocks her head, giving me that look.

I stop her with a hand up. “Nope. Nada. Nyet. This is not Neuroses on Parade. I’m okay. Really.” And that’s true. Mostly. For the time being I’m doing just fine with toys in lieu of a guy. Complete control and all the attention focused on me. That’s the dream, right?

And as to the small issue of my current unemployment and empty bank account … well, that should be remedied soon.

She narrows her eyes. “Come on, Aria. This is me. Whatever it is, I can help. Do you need to skip this month’s rent?”

Yeah, she knows me well. I have to smoosh down the urge to say yes so that I can shake my head. “No,” I say. “I told you. It’s not me who needs help. It’s Jenny.”